The Deepest of Bows

You lose it if you talk about it. - Ernest Hemingway in the Zen Calendar (January 24, 2007)

Day 17. As I approached my cushion last night, I found myself in a deep and lasting bow. It made me feel very reverent and humble, which I suspect may be the original purpose of bowing. While leaning deeply forward, with my forehead pressed almost to my shins, I recalled a wonderful memory from a trip to Japan in the late 1990's.

I had traveled to teach on the Air Force Base at Yokosuka. Since my classes met in the evening, I utilized the day time for rampant exploration. Several of my students had suggested a train trip to Kamakura, so after much courteous bowing and pointing exchanged with several of the locals, I found myself deposited in that delightful city. It was a beautiful day - sunny and quite warm. Kamakura is home to the Great Buddha Statue called Daibutsu, and I easily found my way to the 40-foot outdoor shrine. I was expecting a solemn and formal temple site and the destination of serious religious pilgrimages, so imagine my surprise at the American theme park ambiance I encountered. Uniformed school children on field trips, raucous Japanese tourist groups vying for the best photographic angle, and colorful souvenir kiosks were spread throughout the temple area. I stood silently at the foot of the statue and wondered about the people who envisioned and then built it. I thanked them in my heart.

Stopping at one of the kiosks, I purchased a map of the numerous ancient Buddhist temples located throughout Kamakura. Since I was an industrious hiker (that was 12 years ago!) I struck out on foot through the sunshine. Skipped several of the larger, more tourist oriented sites, and soon found myself meandering further and further from the heart of the city. It didn't take long to realize that the map in my hand bore no resemblance whatsoever to the actual streets I traversed. After a couple of miles, I was meandering on a narrow lane in the hilly countryside. Backing up to the lane on both sides were ramshackle yards and gardens - many of which were planted with lovely flowering shrubs and fruit trees. I rounded a bend, and there, nestled on a steep hill, stood the 3,000 year old temple. I approached it cautiously, as there was no one about. An ancient wooden porch surrounded the screened-in central room, and on it were several pairs of tiny wooden sandals. I took off my shoes and stared at my enormous American feet. Looked at the doll-sized shoes and looked back at my feet. Shook my head, daunted and perplexed. I had every intention of honoring the Japanese custom of not entering a building wearing my outside shoes. At that moment, a robed monk - my guess was the priest of the temple - quietly appeared at my side and gently laid a pair of what could only be men's sandals at my feet. I smiled up at him, slipped on the shoes, and carefully stepped inside. There were only two other women within. They had taken their place on low benches in front of a candle-lit altar. The altar was laden with several items familiar to me from my teacher's zendo back in the States: a statue of the seated Buddha, burning incense, a vase with a single bud in it, an orange, a large gong.

Prior to departing for this trip, we had been practicing bows at my home zendo. That's right - practicing bows. We had been taught how to do the same elaborate and laborious ritual bow that my teacher had learned from Suzuki Roshi at the the San Francisco Zen Center. The bow ends with the student on her knees, leaning forward with the forehead touching the ground. With arms bent and palms facing up, we would raise our hands from the elbow three times, then stand erect and begin the bow again. It was beautiful to watch, sacred to perform. My teacher said that Americans had so much to learn that we should do a sequence of nine of the bows rather than the traditional Japanese three. So there I was: a blue-eyed, blond American who had appeared on foot in the countryside in the middle of a week day, wearing my men's sandals, performing nine perfect Zen bows in a 3,000 year old shrine. During the first three, the priest stood by respectfully, watching intently. For bows four through eight, he looked at me quizzically, and as I stood up after my ninth bow, I'm certain I saw a twinkle in his eye. I took my place beside the women on the benches. We began to chant.

As the chanting continued, I discreetly looked at my watch, and to my dismay saw how much of the afternoon had flown by. I had a train to catch and a class to teach back at Yokosuka. An internal battle ensued: leave the temple prematurely and risk confirming the locals' experience of yet another "ugly American" or stay for who knew how long the remainder of the service was and leave my students wondering about the whereabouts of their wayward professor. The priest was looking at me. I pointed to my watch, and reached up to mime the international signal for train by pulling its imaginary whistle. I must have looked stressed, and the priest must have been exceptionally intuitive. He smiled gently and subtly gestured to the opening in the front screen. I silently rose, deeply bowed, and exited the temple. I laced up my huge American shoes and jogged back down the lane to the train station.

As I write this, I can envision that temple. The sun was vivid, the sky a cloudless blue, the fields spattered with green. I had never felt so holy, so blessed, so spiritually moved. I was filled with gratitude and humility and a bit of ego-based pride at how I had represented an American who loved Zen, and who had been taught well. I had worshiped at a site built thousands of years before my country was born. I had bowed the deepest of bows. For then and now: Thank You, Buddha.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc